


Road Head

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Pretentious Endeavour Slash [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Drabble, I Tried, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetic, Pretentious, Ridiculous, Road Head, Shameless Smut, Short One Shot, very brief allusion to daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the closest thing he’s ever felt to heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Head

**Author's Note:**

> My first work in the Endeavour fandom. And it's a drabble. About road head. I'm classy like that.
> 
> It should be noted that it is beyond unlikely this would ever happen, not only because I can't see Thursday willingly cheating on the Mrs., but also because I feel like he'd find road head to be way in the hell too risky for what you're getting out of it. If you can, suspend your disbelief. This is cheap pornography from a trashy writer. I freely admit that this is not prime ground for plausibility, heh.
> 
> (Also, I apologize for any errors that may be in this. I'm currently suffering a bad case of very sore, tonsil stone-ridden tonsils, and am woozy with pain, ergo my editing skills may be utter shite. I just had to write something to take my mind off how much my throat is killing me right now.)

* * *

Road Head

It’s the closest thing he’s ever felt to heaven. It’s like opera, but purer – untainted by the sickness that lurks in the margins of society. It’s the pleasure of driving, but finer – rarefied and wild, with a touch of danger. The rural back-roads are far, far from the city traffic, entirely deserted – the only place Thursday will allow them this, though whether it’s to mitigate the danger of being caught or killed, or the guilt that he feels in response to such dalliances, Morse doesn’t know.

The young man’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles white, skin pulled taught. His eyes are fixed on the path ahead, but it’s all he can do to process what he’s seeing when that warm, tender heat is suckling gently at his prick.

Thursday flicks his tongue and it’s too much. One pale hand drops to clutch desperately at greying hair, those bony fingers weaving through silk strands. Thursday pulls back with a disapproving hum.

“Two hands on the wheel, if you don’t mind.”

The tone has enough of an edge to it. Just enough authority to thrill and pool, molten-hot, in Morse’s gut.

Two hands on the wheel, then.

This is bliss. Perhaps not heaven - perhaps something older - pre-Christian, some ancient rite of diving headlong into danger, just to prove you're strong enough to vanquish it. Trees pass in a blur and it takes iron-hard self-control not to shut his eyes or lose control of the vehicle, but Morse can do it. He has to.

It’s the dissonance – the world beyond the windshield, rainy, cold, and unforgiving. The comforting motion of Thursday’s tongue, gentle – devilishly gentle. Perfect torture. The most beautiful of music, played in a pitch painful to the human ear.

Every muscle in Morse’s body is trembling with exertion as he holds himself still, hips aching to buck into the heat. His boss slowly presses down, until his nose is flush against the thatch of tawny hair at the base of Morse’s cock. He whimpers and groans as Thursday chuckles around him.

“Like that, do you?” the older man whispers against his spit-slicked mouthful.

_“Yesss.”_

It’s a hiss more than a word. A warning more than an agreement, for all at once his eyes are shut and his foot is slammed down on the break and he’s painting his boss’s tongue in shades of white.

When he manages to open his eyes, Thursday is sitting up in the passenger seat, somewhat rumpled but otherwise none the worse for wear. He glances over and raises an eyebrow, eyes blown wide with a potent combination of unspent lust and paternal fondness. It’s nearly enough to have Morse hard again. As it is, he struggles to form words, and when he does, his voice is hoarse and raw. He leans across the divide, stick-shift digging into his ribs. He looks up at Thursday through his eyelashes, licks his lips, and murmurs:

“Your turn, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Validate (or crush) my fragile psyche by telling me if this is or is not terrible in the comments below. Either way, I'd like to know what people think. :3


End file.
